Child, Interrupted
by AllScorpio
Summary: When one father goes too far, will another father be able to handle it?


_**CHILD, INTERRUPTED**_

**WARNING: This story involves child abuse, both physical and sexual. There are no explicit descriptions; however, do not read if you cannot handle the subject matter. This is not a true story, and the characters written about do not depict any real persons that I am aware of.**

**Disclaimer: The main characters belong to Mark VII Limited, not me, but there is no harm in borrowing them for a little bit. This first chapter is kind of short, more like a prologue than an entire chapter. I want to thank emom for doing my beta-read and helping me through some difficult spots. Thanks to her guidance, I think it pulls together pretty nicely, considering the material I am writing about. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated.**

_Chapter One~~~~~_

_With the smell of alcohol on his breath, Sylvester Franklin pulled the drapes together and made sure the door was locked. He flicked the television off as he passed it, swaying slightly as he leaned forward. He ran his hand through his hair, and then walked down the quiet hallway to the darkened room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the absence of light; when he could make out the form on the bed, he made his way across the room. Pulling back the pink blanket, and ignoring his conscience, he did what he had done so many times before._

"Jenny, how many times do I have to tell you to stop leaving these toys on the living room floor?" Roy hollered up the stairs to his seven-year-old daughter, though he did it to be heard, not because he was angry. He had just tripped over one of her dolls, which had been propped up opposite another one, so the two could have a tea party.

Jennifer DeSoto barreled down the stairway, her long brown hair flapping behind her. She knew from the tone that her father wasn't mad, but decided it was a good idea to pick up her possessions anyway. She stopped inches from Roy, and turned her sparkling blue eyes up at him. "I'm sorry, Daddy. It won't happen again, I promise."

Though he didn't believe her, he couldn't be mad at her when she used those eyes against him. It's got to be something mothers teach to their daughters to use as weapons, he thought, suppressing a grin. "All right, see to it you don't. I wouldn't want anything to happen to Betsy and Annie."

"Okay, Daddy," Jennifer replied, smiling angelically. She set about picking up the dolls and tea set, and Roy sauntered into the kitchen to check on dinner.

"That smells great, Jo," he said to his wife.

"Thanks, dear," Joanne replied, stirring the sauce. "I know it probably won't be as good at Stoker's, but I figured I would try anyway. By the way, did I hear you yelling for Jenny?"

"Yeah, she left her dolls and tea set on the floor again," Roy said, reaching for a glass in the cupboard.

"And let me guess," Joanne chided, "you royally chewed her out for it, threatened to take the dolls away, and forbade her to ever play tea party in the living room again."

"No," Roy confessed sheepishly, pouring himself some iced tea. "I just told her to pick them up. She promised not to leave them there again."

"And you believed her?" Joanne joked. "Oh, my dear husband, has she got you wrapped around her little finger, or what?"

"I know," Roy confirmed, smiling. "But she gets me with those puppy-dog eyes every time."

_Chapter Two~~~~~_

_BethAnne never knew what she had done wrong. When she got hit, Daddy said it had been because she had been bad. When he did other things, he said it was because her mommy had been bad, and because mommy wasn't there anymore, BethAnne had to be punished in her place. She never tried to stop him, because he said all daddies punished their little girls this way. She only knew that sometimes she hurt, and though Daddy caused the pain, the rest of the time he treated her like a princess._

The time he spent with his family was always precious to Roy DeSoto, as he never knew if there was going to come a day when he didn't make it home again. His famil was such a support to him, even though there was always a risk that a fire, or other tragedy, would take him away from them. That was always in the back of his mind, as well as every other man in the service, and he worked every day to not let the fear overwhelm him.

He sat at the table in the station, drinking his coffee, and thinking about his kids. They were growing up so fast. Jenny was seven, and already a heartbreaker. She not only had Roy under her little-girl spell, but her older brother, Chris, as well. Roy chuckled, thinking about the night before, when his darling daughter somehow convinced his pseudo-macho ten year old son to play tea party with her. Though Chrismoaned about how boys don't do that, he seemed to enjoy himself.

John Gage strolled into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. "Hey, pally, how was the time off with your brood?"

Roy set his cup down, a slight smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. "Pretty uneventful. Though Jenny got her brother to play tea party with her. I'll tell you, that girl turns on the charm and the whole world falls at her feet."

"You mean the male world, don't you?" Johnny kidded. "I don't see Joanne falling for the innocent angel act. And don't forget how she managed to talk me into getting her that play set for the back yard after you told her no."

"I remember," Roy agreed. "But I think Joanne doesn't fall for it because she's the one that taught it to her in the first place. How do you think she gets me to do stuff I don't want to do? I think there's some covert training class that mothers go to that teaches women how to pass it on to their daughters, from generation to generation. "

The tones ringing out throughout the building cut their conversation short. "Squad 51, reports of an injured child, 1518 Mohave Road, cross street Thacker Drive. Time out, 9:16."

"Squad 51, KMG365," Hank spoke into the wall mic, copying down the address for his paramedics. Within moments, the bright red rescue vehicle was pulling out of the station, sirens blaring. Minutes later, they pulled up in front of a small, white, stucco house. A man in jeans and a blue tee shirt stood out front, and motioned to them as they exited the vehicle.

The medics grabbed the gear they thought they might use, though they didn't know the nature of the injuries, and followed the man into the home. On the floor sat a little girl, cradling an arm and sobbing. The towering man hovered over the dark-haired moppet and informed the medics of the problem. "This is my daughter, BethAnne. She was jumping on the sofa, and fell off. She hit her arm on the coffee table, and I think she might have broken it."

"We'll just take a look and see," Roy said, trying to comfort the child. He couldn't help but notice that she looked to be about the same age as Jennifer. "Hi, sweetie, my name is Roy, and this is my friend Johnny. Can I look at your arm?"

She stopped crying, and looked up at her father. He nodded, and she moved her hand away. Roy did a quick evaluation, and it didn't appear that anything was broken, just badly sprained. But it didn't escape his attention that she had a large bruise on her arm higher up, hidden under the edge of her sleeve. It looked like it had been there a couple of days; there was no way she could have gotten it today. And though the only light in the room came from the sun trying to stream though the dirty windows, he could also see what appeared to be a healing bruise along the back of her jaw line. He glanced up at Johnny, who was busy setting up the biophone.

Roy addressed his pint-sized patient. "BethAnne, can you tell me what happened?"

BethAnne opened her mouth to speak, but was stopped by her father before she could reply. "Listen, it happened just like I told you. Just wrap her arm up or something and get lost."

"Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?" Johnny pulled out his pen and paper, surprised at the brusqueness of the parent, and got ready to copy down the necessary vitals.

"Squad 51, reading you loud and clear," came back the voice of Dixie McCall, head nurse in the emergency department.

"Rampart, we have a female, age 7, that has an arm injury from an apparent fall." Johnny looked up at his partner, who was continuing with the exam. "Stand by for vitals."

"What the hell does that mean, apparent fall?" The girl's father seemed angered by the verbiage used.

Gage realized that DeSoto was taking longer than usual, and watched him carefully. Thanks to how closely they learned to work together, he recognized instantly that Roy was concentrating on more than just the slender arm he held, and followed his line of sight. In seconds he, too, spied the other older injuries. He nodded almost imperceptibly, knowing the father that stood watch over them might be the reason for the bruises. Johnny tried to appease the hulking man. "Sir, it just means that we weren't witness to the accident, and the information is being given to us second hand. Now, please calm down so we can do our job."

Roy finished taking the vitals, and Johnny relayed them to the base station. He shot a quick look at the father, and then thumbed the handset for the biophone again. "Rampart, the victim appears to have a bad sprain, but we'd like to bring her in for an X-Ray, just to be safe."

"Do you have to?" Sylvester countered. "I mean, it's not broken, right?"

"It doesn't appear to be," Roy charged, deliberately not looking at the ired man. "But it's best to have an X-Ray done to determine that."

"What if I take her to our family doctor?" Franklin was adamant that these men were not going to take his daughter to a hospital. "I'll take her right now. I-I just got worried when she fell off and started crying. I guess I panicked. But if it's not broken, there's no point in taking her to an emergency room. I have that right, don't I?"

The paramedic team exchanged glances, but admitted defeat. "Yes, sir, you do have that right as her father. There's a form you'll need to sign to state you're refusing further medical treatment for your daughter."

"Okay, let me sign it," Sylvester demanded, eager for the pair to go.

While Roy went to the squad to get the form, Johnny radioed in a progress report to the hospital. "Rampart, Squad 51. Please be advised that the patient's father is refusing transport to the ER, and will be signing the necessary consent form."

"Squad 51, are there any other injuries" Dixie questioned.

As much as he wanted to blurt out about the bruises, he had to be truthful that there didn't appear to be any as a result of this incident. "That's a negative, Rampart."

Begrudgingly, Roy let Sylvester sign the form, and then helped his partner pack up their equipment. They remained silent until they were securely in the truck, pulling away.

"I can't believe that guy," Johnny finally blurted out. "I mean, it was obvious she had been injured before. He probably just didn't want us taking her in to the ER and having someone else find out. I think we should call the cops."

"And tell them what?" Roy questioned, although he, too, had entertained the idea momentarily while still at the home. "That he's a jerk? That a little girl has bruises? They'll just say kids get hurt all the time. Don't forget, we don't have any proof of any wrongdoing."

"Yeah, well, just because we don't have proof, doesn't mean he didn't do anything wrong," Johnny surmised. "I hope someday that creep gets what's coming to him."

'I know how you feel, partner,' Roy thought to himself. 'I couldn't agree more.'

_Chapter Three~~~~~_

Mrs. Jenkins was kneeling in the soil, pulling weeds from her small backyard garden. She stopped momentarily to wipe the sweat from her forehead. There was hardly a breeze, and she considered just going back indoors and escaping from the heat. Her ears picked up a strange sound; she believed it to be a muffled scream. She froze like a deer in headlights, straining to hear. A few moments passed, and she heard it again. She was positive now that it was a small scream. She stood, and looked around. Following the sound, she realized it was coming from the house next door. Worried, she pulled off her gardening gloves and tossed them to the ground. Gladys darted through her house and raced out the front door. It only took a few steps to reach the Franklins' home, and she pounded on the old wooden door.

At first, there was no response. Taking a chance, she leaned forward and placed her ear against the unpainted wood. Nothing. Knocking again, she waited on the porch. Five seconds later, the door was pulled open rapidly, and a disheveled Sylvester Franklin stood glaring at his neighbor. "What?"

Startled, it took a moment for Gladys to compose herself. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Franklin, but I thought I heard screaming."

Sylvester stared at the sweaty woman, and then forced a smile. "Yeah, it was BethAnne. She saw a spider. I got it taken care of. Thanks for stopping over."

Gladys was taken aback when the door was slammed unceremoniously in her face. She didn't buy his answer, but couldn't just barge in to verify it. She had never really trusted this man, but didn't tell anyone of her suspicions. Gladys didn't see little BethAnne outside very often, especially unattended, but the few times she spied the child playing in the yard on the side of their house, it appeared she had bruises, and more than once, she had heard the poor thing crying in the back yard, where no one could see her over the tall fence. The elderly neighbor had suspected her father was hurting her, but never saw anything herself. It had always just been her personal feelings. She only hoped she was wrong about him.

"Uncle Johnny, can I have one, please?" Jenny pleaded, beaming widely and batting her lashes. "I promise to take care of it."

Johnny sighed, telling himself mentally that he needed to say no, that Jenny didn't need one, and that Roy would probably condemn him for getting one in the first place. But he was a sucker for that cute face and winning grin. He turned to the lady at the counter. "I'll take one."

The woman smiled knowingly, and almost laughed when Christopher added his thoughts.

"Uncle Johnny, you shouldn't have gotten that for her," he admonished, sounding wise beyond his years. "Dad will kick your ass."

"Christopher!" Johnny stammered, though he knew the boy was more than likely right. He had to fight to stifle a laugh, even as he scolded his partner's son. "You know you aren't supposed to use language like that. What would your dad say?"

"Probably a lot worse when he finds out you bought Jenny a goldfish," Chris joked, taking a bite of his hot dog.

Johnny paid for the small fish in the tiny, round bowl, then ushered the kids back to his jeep. He always had fun when he took the kids to the fair, and always got into trouble for buying things for them that he shouldn't. But it was worth the lecture from Roy and Joanne. He wasn't related by blood, but they were family to him, and he always got away with it.

The next shift, the tones sounded during Adam-12, and were followed by the familiar voice of the LA County Dispatcher. "Squad 51, injured child, 1518 Mohave Road, cross street Thacker Drive. Time out, 19:40."

"Squad 51, KMG365," Roy said into mic. He and his crew mate climbed into the cab of the squad, pulling on their helmets. Before he pulled out of the bay, DeSoto looked at his friend. "Does that address sound familiar?"

Johnny nodded, daring not to speak. He felt a hard lump in his throat, and he suddenly had a bad feeling about this call.

The squad roared into the setting sun, heading back to a familiar destination. They had both hoped they would never have to go back to the house again, but somehow knew it was inevitable.

When they arrived, Gladys Jenkins was standing on the sidewalk, shaking like a leaf and crying. A police officer was trying to console her. Roy ran up to them as Johnny pulled equipment from the back of the truck. "What have we got?"

"I think you'd better talk to my partner," the officer said solemnly, pointing in the direction of the stucco house. Roy saw another cop standing near the front door, holding a flashlight. Feeling like he was walking through water, Roy pushed himself to move forward. When he got over to the officer, he looked down, and swallowed dryly.

BethAnne Franklin lay on the sidewalk, mere feet from the house, covered in blood, her dress torn. It took every ounce of strength Roy had to kneel down to the child. A moment later, Johnny ran up, carrying an armload. He saw BethAnne, and groaned. "Aw, man…"

The cop stepped back to give them room. "The neighbor called us. She said she came out to look for her cat, and saw the girl lying like this. She searched the house for the father, but he's not here. From what we can tell, she crawled out of the house and collapsed here."

"What about her mother?" Roy queried, his eyes unable to move from the bloodied face.

"Mrs. Jenkins says the mother left when the child was a few months old," Officer Fenton stated. "Said the father has been raising her alone."

"Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?" Roy felt dizzy, and forced himself to concentrate on his job.

"Squad 51, we read you loud and clear," Kelly Brackett relayed from the base station.

"Rampart, we have a female, age 7. It appears she's the victim of an assault. Stand by for vitals." Roy had never had a harder time responding to a call.

Johnny moved quickly, barking out the vitals as he took them. He suddenly wished he weren't here, that this wasn't happening. He checked for the extent of her injuries as his partner spoke into the biophone. "Rampart, vitals are, pulse is 36, BP is 90/40, respirations are 18 and shallow, and pupils are fixed and slightly dilated. She appears to have multiple lacerations and bruises, and a possible broken arm. There is also a large bump above her left temple, and she is non-responsive."

Kel sighed, knowing he was going to have a hard night ahead of him. "Squad 51, is there a parent present to consent to an IV?"

Roy thumbed the switch. "That's negative, Rampart. However, we do have police assistance."

"51, have an officer sign the consent form, and start an IV with Ringers. Transport immediately." Brackett figured he would sort out the legalities later. His only concern was for the child.

"10-4, Rampart," Roy acknowledged, setting about his task. He pierced her pale skin with the IV needle, hoping she might wake up. He wasn't surprised when there was no reaction. Minutes later, Roy lifted the girl onto the awaiting stretcher as if she were made of porcelain, and the unconscious child was placed into an ambulance; the senior paramedic turned down his partner's offer to ride in with her. He had to suppress the urge to vomit, as he kept picturing his beautiful little Jennifer in this position. He had never wanted to harm another human being before as much as he wanted to now, and was almost grateful that Franklin hadn't been there.

Less than 20 minutes after arriving at the grim scene, the ambulance pulled up at Rampart General, and the stretcher was whisked into a waiting exam room. Roy was ordered to stay in the hallway, where he waited for his partner.

Johnny arrived with the squad, paler than Roy had ever seen him. He realized Johnny had probably had the same thought as he had about Jenny, and was just as shaken as he was. "Roy? Do they know anything yet?"

"No," Roy exhaled, lowering his eyes to the floor, wanting to be anywhere else. "Brackett and Early are in there now."

"Maybe we should hang around here for a bit," Johnny coaxed, anxious for some good news about the once-pretty child. "You know, in case the cops want to talk to us."

"Yeah," Roy agreed. "That's a good idea. I'll let dispatch know we're going to be out of service for a while."

DeSoto notified the dispatcher, and then called the station to brief Hank on the situation. Half an hour later, while they were giving their statement to a police officer, Brackett sullenly entered the waiting room. All eyes turned instantly to him.

"I'm very sorry," Kel began. "We did everything we could, but her injuries were just too severe. Officer Runnells, you'll want to get a homicide detective over here. Her death was caused by blunt force trauma of the head, and further examination showed she may have been sexually assaulted, as well."

Runnells left the room to call it in, and Kel remained in the waiting room with the paramedics. "Do either of you know where the parents are?"

"A neighbor told us that her mother left when she was a baby," Roy relayed, suddenly wanting to sit down. "She lived with her father, but he wasn't there when we arrived. How-who could do something like that?"

"I wish I had an answer," Brackett started. "It's tragic and horrible, but unfortunately it does happen. All we can do now is let the police sort it all out."

"Doc," Johnny ventured, not really to know the answer, but needing to ask anyway, "do you think her own father…"

"I don't know," Brackett answered truthfully. "I sincerely hope not. But it doesn't look good for him that some of her injuries were days, even weeks old. We're going to have to rely on the autopsy for complete answers, but I'd wager she was abused for a very long time. In most of these cases, it's a parent or close caregiver that does it."

"Why wouldn't someone step in and stop it?" Roy couldn't conceive of someone doing this to his daughter. "How could something like that go unnoticed for so long?"

Brackett sighed, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his medical jacket. "From what I understand, abusers become very adept at hiding the abuse. They lie expertly, keep the victim from contact with very many other people, and learn how to hide the proof. Sometimes a thing like this doesn't come out until a severe injury results, or in cases like BethAnne's, becomes fatal."

"I hope whoever did this gets exactly what's coming to him," Roy uttered, stifling his anger. "Thanks, Doc, we gotta go."

_Chapter Four~~~~~_

Days, then weeks, passed after that fateful run. The paramedics still cringed every time they were called out to something involving a child, but luckily, they didn't come across the situation again. They had come close to forgetting about it after some time, until Stoker happened to pick up the newspaper one morning.

"Hey, guys, wasn't the name of that little girls' father Franklin?" he asked, unsure if he should even broach the topic, he knew they would recall instantly which little girl he was referring to.

Roy thought about it momentarily. "Yeah, it was Sylvester Franklin. Why do you ask?"

"His name is in the paper," Stoker relayed, handing the article over. Roy scanned the page, his eyes locking on the story immediately. He read it aloud to the crew.

" 'Detectives with the Los Angeles Police Department released a statement that they are declining to press charges against the father of BethAnne Franklin, who died June 16 of blunt force trauma. Police initially arrested Sylvester Franklin under suspicion of child abuse and assault with intent, but were forced to release him when it was determined there was insufficient evidence to continue with legal proceedings. As of today, there are no other suspects in her homicide, and the authorities are asking the public to come forward if they have any information that may help solve the case.' " Roy exhaled, visibly shaken. He put the newspaper on the table, and calmly walked out of the kitchen. The other men were left to look around at each other, silently wondering what was going to happen.

They didn't have long to wait, as less than two minutes after walking towards the engine bay, a loud crash was heard. Fearful of what they would find, the five men ran towards the sound, which they discovered had come from the dorm area. Johnny was in the lead, and pulled up short as he entered the bathroom. Standing in front of him was his partner, his hand bleeding. His eyes moved away from Roy to the mirror behind him, which was now shattered.

"Uh, Roy, are you alright?" Johnny questioned, moving towards his friend and grabbing the injured extremity.

"I feel a little better, actually," Roy claimed. It did appear that he was no longer shaken, and he seemed to not realize he may have seriously injured his left hand. He watched, almost in a detached state, as Johnny tended to his torn flesh with the supplies that Marco had instinctively fetched from the squad as soon as he had seen the damage.

Hank peered intently at the triage being performed. "How's it look, Johnny?"

"Well, Cap," Gage replied, not looking up from what he was doing, "I don't think it's too severe. It looks worse than it really is because of the bleeding, but it's mostly scraped knuckles. It doesn't look like he's going to need stitches, although it's gonna hurt like hell for the next couple of days."

"Do we need to stand you down?" Hank asked, ready to do so.

"Nah," Johnny explained. "It's really a minor injury; I don't think it's going to affect his work. There you go, partner. How is it?"

Roy seemed almost euphoric by the time his hand was patched up. "Much better, thanks. Let's go finish breakfast, huh?"

"Wait a minute," Hank ordered, very concerned about his paramedic's mental state. "You just broke a mirror with your fist, and you're ready to go eat? What's wrong with this picture?"

"I'm fine, Cap, really," Roy insisted. "I just got a little upset, and needed to blow off some steam. It was kind of cathartic, and now I'm not upset anymore. Can we…?"

Roy brushed past his captain and crewmates as if nothing had happened. Hank reconsidered the idea of standing them down and calling in replacements, but decided that if his man said he was okay, and another trained paramedic said he was okay, then he should let the matter drop. After all, Roy did seem to be feeling better after his tantrum. Before he left the room, he surveyed the damage, trying to figure out how he was going to explain this to the Chief.

His hand bandaged, Roy appeared to be his old self as he finished breakfast and set about doing inventory in the squad. Hank approached Johnny and pulled him aside. "Listen, John, I'm still a little worried about Roy. I know he's taking this girls' death pretty hard, and I just want to make sure there's no cause for concern. Do me a favor, would you pal, and let me know if he seems to be having any problems, will you?"

"You got it, Cap," Gage answered, keeping his voice low. "He says he's fine, but I don't believe him either. I think maybe she reminded him too much of Jenny, and as a father, he felt helpless about the situation. It's just hard to understand why he's not going to be punished. I mean, there's no doubt about what happened, at least not in Roy's mind, apparently."

"I know," Hank empathized. "But the prosecutor has to rely on solid evidence, and obviously they didn't have what they needed. There just wasn't enough proof."

"Yeah, proof," Johnny mused, fighting his own feelings of anger. True, he hadn't really known BethAnne, but he felt disgusted nonetheless when he had bumped into Dixie McCall a few days after they brought the lifeless body of the tortured child into the ER. He remembered the brief conversation he'd had with her outside the base station.

_"Hey, Johnny." Dixie looked distracted, and her voice sounded almost flat. That was not like her at all, since she was very grounded, and nothing seemed to faze her. "I'm glad I bumped into you. The results of the autopsy on BethAnne Franklin came in a little while ago, and it's what we suspected."_

_"Oh, yeah? How bad?" Gage whispered, feeling his blood run cold. He looked around to make sure his partner was not within earshot._

_"She'd had several broken bones that healed over time; based on what the M.E. found, she was probably abused starting around age 2. At least, that's approximately when the first bone was broken." Dixie had to take a deep breath to continue. "It also revealed a repeated pattern of sexual abuse. It looks like that poor little girl had a life filled with nothing but suffering."_

_"Well, the cops are going to arrest her father, aren't they?" Johnny's cold chill was replaced by the warm rush of anger. "I mean, it had to be him."_

_"That's what I understand from Kel," the head nurse confirmed. "Listen, I gotta go. You take care."_

_Johnny passed the information on to his partner as tactfully as he could, and they both felt slightly relieved at the thought of justice being served. That is, until today._

Captain Stanley snapped his paramedic out of his reverie. "Are you going to be okay, pal?"

"Huh?" Johnny blinked a couple of times, clearing his head. "Oh, yeah, I'll be fine. Don't worry, Cap, I have a feeling that Roy's gonna be okay."

_Chapter Five~~~~~_

Sylvester's Story:

Sylvester Franklin pulled the top off of another bottle of beer; sitting in the broken-down recliner in his quiet living room, he pondered his situation.

His unemployment checks were about to dry up, and thanks to all of the publicity surrounding him, it was unlikely he was going to find a job anytime soon. In his head, he cursed his wife and daughter. Both of them gone, but his life was still in the crapper. It hadn't started out that way, though.

At one time, he did try to have a normal life. He'd had a good job as a construction worker, making pretty solid pay. A year after getting married to his high school sweetheart, Elizabeth, he found out he was going to be a father. He was hesitant about having a baby. After all, he and Lizzie had just started their lives together. Did they really want to add a kid to the mix?

He'd found out, shortly after learning of his impending fatherhood, that his wife had taken to using recreational drugs and drinking to keep her company while he worked full time. He worried what it would do to the baby, and ordered her to stop. She'd had him convinced she was clean during the rest of her pregnancy, and before he knew it, he was holding his daughter, BethAnne, in his roughened hands. He'd never been so proud in his life. Then, it all started coming unraveled.

He came home from work one evening, and heard his infant daughter screaming. He found her, unattended, in her crib, her diaper soaked. He changed her into clean clothing, and then provided her with a bottle. Once he was done feeding her, he finally went to see where his wife was. He found her, face down, on the bathroom floor, cold and stiff. She had apparently overdosed. He panicked, fearful that if he contacted police they would arrest him and take his daughter away. During the night, he wrapped his deceased wife in a blanket, tossed her body into his pickup, and drove her to one of the construction sites he'd been working at. Making sure he wasn't seen, he dumped her body into a crevasse that he knew was slated to have cement poured into the next day, and covered her in dirt. He knew that the hole wouldn't be checked before pouring, so he felt confident she wouldn't be discovered. He was right; the cement was poured for the foundation, and Lizzie's body never found.

However, it set him up for a life of trouble. He'd missed Lizzie, but had to concentrate on caring for BethAnne. He'd managed to find child care during the day, and once in a while his sister would watch her so he could work. But it got increasingly harder, and he became more bitter and angry. He took to drinking after work to quell the negative feelings. It didn't help as much as he thought it would, and before too long, he was drinking before work, too. The alcohol seemed to fuel his anger, and that, along with continuous frustration, created a monster, one that hit his only child. Of course, he would later apologize, and put her on a pedestal. But it wouldn't be long before he found himself with his fists flying again.

He'd managed to convince everyone he knew that his wife couldn't cope with being a mother, and had taken off. It was never questioned, as most people close to them knew they'd had a stormy relationship to begin with. He'd even convinced himself that his wife chose to leave him with a baby, angry with her for doing this to him. His anger, along with his almost constant alcohol use, caused him to become reckless on the job. His boss, a friend from school, noticed how he was starting to slack off, and sat him down to talk, informing him that if he didn't straighten out his act, he was going to be let go. Sylvester tried being sober for several months. But when he was sober, he had needs that had to be taken care of. He felt ashamed, and sickened, by his thoughts, but eventually, those thoughts turned into actions. He disgusted himself, but couldn't seem to stop. In an effort to quash those feelings, he turned back to the bottle. He learned to hide it well at work, at least for another year or so, and then he stopped caring. His friend had no choice but to fire him. However, knowing he had a small child, his boss let everyone think he'd been laid off due to economic reasons, and Sylvester was allowed to collect unemployment. With school out for the summer, and Sylvester out of work, it became a very tumultuous time in the small, white house. It went from bad to worse in the space of a few short months, with Franklin's anger persistent. There had been many times when his nosy neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, had stopped by unexpectedly, claiming she needed to borrow something, or wanted to see if BethAnne wanted to come to her house for fresh-baked cookies. Her snooping only served to make him angrier.

That last night, he'd been drinking, as usual, and innocently, BethAnne asked if she could watch some television. After all, Sylvester had told her if she cleaned her room, she would be allowed one hour in front of the t.v. He dragged her into the small bedroom to see if she had been telling the truth, and was enraged to find that she had simply stuffed most of her belongings under the bed. Suddenly, it was as if someone else had taken control of him. He hit her, and then dragged her as she sobbed, into the living room. Something inside the back of his mind told him to stop, that he shouldn't be doing this, that she didn't deserve this punishment. Another voice whispered into his ear that he was justified; her mother wasn't there to take care of them, of him, so he earned the right to do whatever he wanted.

BethAnne cried, squirming, trying to get out of her father's grasp, but was overpowered by the man. She begged, fighting him off, and as he violated her, she screamed. Afraid the noise would alert the neighbors, and not thinking clearly, Sylvester grabbed a bookend from a nearby shelf, and struck her once on the side of her head. Her screaming stopped, and her body went limp. After a few seconds, Sylvester realized something was seriously wrong, and pulled himself together. "BethAnne? Honey?"

He leaned over her, brushing the hair from her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling, seeming not to notice he was there. She was still breathing, but Sylvester noticed she was bleeding. Now the true extent of the damage was visible. He'd left a sizable lump on her head, but in his hurried anger, he'd also torn her dress, and at some point scratched her several times, tearing welts of skin. He panicked; he leapt from his place on the floor and ran out of his home, not knowing where he was going. He jumped into his pickup and began driving; he wouldn't return home until the following day, where he learned BethAnne had somehow managed to crawl out the front door on the sidewalk, as if she were trying to get help, and there she fell. When questioned, he stated BethAnne had been fine when he left, and that she must have let a total stranger into the house; according to him the stranger obviously hurt her.

No one would come near him anymore, no one called to see how he was doing. At first, when friends and family had learned that BethAnne had been killed, they were around night and day, providing comfort and condolences. But after he had been arrested, though they didn't have enough proof to formally charge him, those well-wishers stopped visiting. He knew what they were thinking, and they were right; he just couldn't, wouldn't, tell them how right they were. He came close a couple of times of simply confessing, allowing himself to suffer the punishment he knew he deserved. But he was always stopped by the same voice that came to him during his dark moments. It told him he had been punished enough, by a lousy, druggie wife that selfishly left him behind with a child he hadn't wanted in the first place. And punished by a daughter that seemed to always find ways to make him angry. No, he wouldn't confess, and there wasn't enough hard evidence to take him to court. Though he knew the D.A. was practically crawling up his ass, trying to find a way to convict him, it would never happen, and he was left to his own devices.

He drank until he couldn't see straight, and fell asleep sitting in the chair. He would repeat this pattern non-stop over the next few days, leaving his stucco house twice during that period, and only to go to the liquor store a few blocks away to get more alcohol. In addition to the beer he routinely drank, in the last trips he picked up more potent stuff. He didn't consciously acknowledge it, but unconsciously, he intended to drink himself to death.

Johnny did as he promised, and kept a close eye on his partner. Roy did, in fact, seem to be as fine as he claimed. He didn't complain once about his hand hurting, and didn't let it interfere with his job. After a few days, the bandage came off, and the wounds had healed nicely, at least the physical ones. The rest of the A-Shift crew felt more at ease, realizing the senior paramedic wasn't going to do something drastic like that again, and life got back to normal at the station.

Nearly two weeks after the article was printed about the BethAnne Franklin case, the squad was toned out to a more-than-familiar address. "LA, Squad 51, see the caller about unknown injury, 1518 Mojave Road, cross street Thacker Drive. Time out, 11:40."

Roy froze, and Johnny quickly looked at his partner. Hank stood to answer the dispatcher, and instantly noticed how pale the senior medic had become. "Roy? Is everything okay?"

Johnny spoke up. "Uh, Cap, that's the address for BethAnne Franklin."

Hank, seeing how distraught Roy looked, posed a solution. "Hey, fellas, maybe I should have another squad respond."

"No, Cap," Roy interjected, rising from his chair. "I can handle it. I'm going to do my job. Come on, Johnny."

Before Hank could protest, the pair was jumping into the rescue vehicle. He thumbed the mic. "Squad 51, KMG365."

For the third time, Roy DeSoto and Johnny Gage sped towards the deadly destination, not knowing what they would find. They arrived minutes later, and found Gladys Jenkins standing in front of the house they had prayed they would never have to see again. She ushered them to the front of Franklin's house, and pointed out an opening in the curtain. "I didn't know what else to do. My cat, Ginger, ran over here, and I found her sitting on the porch. I went to get her, and peeked into the open curtain to make sure Mr. Franklin didn't catch me over here. He and I have never gotten along. Anyway, I saw him lying on the floor, and figured maybe he was sick or something. I knocked on the door several times, but he never answered, and he's still in the same spot as when I first saw him, almost an hour ago."

"Thanks, we'll take it from here," Johnny counseled, ushering the old woman to go back to her home. He pounded on the door as his partner peered through the filthy curtain. "Fire Department, open up!"

Roy shook his head, indicating there was no reaction, and together they busted the door open. Grabbing their equipment, they hurried into the room. Johnny found a light switch on the wall, and illuminated the dingy room, which reeked of stale alcohol. The sourch of the stench was not hard to find, as the living room was littered with countless empty or near-empty bottles of various kinds of booze.

Kneeling next to the man they had suspected of killing his own daughter, Johnny felt for a pulse. He found one, though it was very weak. "Roy, from the looks of the place it's probably alcohol poisoning. Why don't you grab the bio-phone, and I'll get his vitals."

"Johnny, wait," Roy whispered, grabbing the junior paramedic's arm. "I-I don't know if I can do this. I mean, we saw what happened to his daughter. He's never going to see the inside of a jail cell. Maybe Cap was right; we should get someone else out here. I can't help save him."

Gage felt as if all the air had been knocked out of his lungs. Could this be happening? His partner, his friend, the man he considered to be a brother, was considering not treating a patient, based on his personal feelings. Johnny never thought something like this would be possible with Roy---he was the epitome of exceptional paramedics; caring, no matter what, and never letting his emotions get in the way.

But, at the same time, he knew his partner was right. Justice would never be served in a court of law. Johnny didn't need a judge to tell him that Sylvester Franklin was guilty of doing unspeakable things to his own daughter; he knew, and he, too, hated him for it.

"Roy, I don't know…" Johnny lamented, wishing he didn't have to make this decision. "You're talking about withholding treatment, letting someone die."

"You can still do what needs to be done," Roy stated, suddenly sounding like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "But if I assist you and he lives, I could never look at myself in the mirror again. And I'd never be able to look Jenny in the eye. She would never know why, but I would."

"Roy, think about it," Johnny reasoned. "It wasn't Jenny. It was horrible, yes, and he deserves to be punished. But it would take too long to get another squad to come out here, and I can't do this alone. I can try, but you know as well as I do that it's practically a death sentence in his condition to leave it to just one person. Just tell me what you want me to do; I'll back you up no matter what. You know that."

DeSoto sighed, looking down at the form on the floor, seeing the respirations slowing down, and wrestling with his conscience. A moment later, he looked up into the pleading brown eyes of his partner…

It was just a small article, hardly even noticeable in the pages of the daily newspaper, unless you knew to look for it. It just simply said that Sylvester Franklin, suspected to have a hand in his daughter's death, died at Rampart General; the apparent cause was alcohol poisoning. It stated that while paramedics had been dispatched, Franklin had been too gravely ill to be saved. Hank read, and then re-read, the article, glancing at his men as they washed the dishes. Johnny and Roy had come back from Rampart, looking solemn. By the end of the shift, however, things seemed normal again. Eventually, Captain Stanley put the newspaper down and got started on his paperwork. He never brought up the subject of what happened that day; he knew, though, that part of Roy DeSoto was lost that afternoon.

_"Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?" Roy's voice shook as he spoke, almost as much as the hand that held the bio-phone._

_"Go ahead, 51," Joe Early said from the other end._

_"Rampart, we have a male, approximate age 26, he appears to be the victim of alcohol poisoning…" The rest of the call seemed to move by in a blur, and before he knew it, Roy was backing the squad into a spot at Rampart._

_Johnny met his partner outside the exam room,where he stood pale as a sheet. He didn't need verbalized what was eating away at his friend; Johnny knew exactly what was on his mind. He also knew what needed to be done. It was something he should have insisted on getting done a long time ago. He grabbed Roy's elbow, and not meeting any resistance, started leading him down the hallway. _

_A few steps later, Roy finally spoke for the first time since seeing the ambulance pull away from the Franklin residence. "Johnny, what did I do?"_

_Taking the HT from his friend's hand, he told him. "You did the right thing. It might not feel like it now, but considering the alternative, I don't think you'll have any problem looking Jenny in the eye. Now, we're going to be out of service for the next little while; I think it's time you had a talk with Dr. Polk."_

_As Roy allowed himself to be directed to the office of one of the resident shrinks, he was quietly grateful that he had a partner that knew him well enough to not only know when he needed help, but cared enough to stop him from making a mistake that he would never be able to justify to his little Jenny._


End file.
